


Passing On

by winter_scldier



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secrets, Self-Harm, Subtle Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 02:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18983164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_scldier/pseuds/winter_scldier





	1. Crying

_Thank god it's the middle of winter. Not that I wouldn't wear pants anyway._

Buck anxiously picked at his pant leg as he ate. Steve had just come home from a long and dangerous mission, practically drowning in the bowl of soup Buck had made him. He was sitting in his torn and dirt-stained tank top and his old and stretched out sweat pants. Buck let out sigh before slowly resting his spoon on the brim of the half full bowl.

"What's the matter?" asked Steve. "Thought you loved reunion soup." 

He chuckled "Nah, it's not that. I'm exhausted is all. You kept me up all night worrying about you."

In truth, Buck hadn't gotten a good night sleep in decades. Even after being freed from Hydra, the voice in his head never really left him alone. Steve hadn't brought any suspicions up yet, but Buck couldn't hide it much longer. His thighs were lined with scars, and the scent of alcohol always lingered around the apartment. His legs ached every moment of every day, and his skin was aging more and more by the day. He hated to admit it, but he was relieved to see Steve go on his missions. 

Buck stiffly stood up to put his leftovers in the fridge. Steve cracked a joke about the two of them getting old, but he couldn't hide the suspicion in his eyes. 

"You should come to the gym with me tomorrow," Steve suggested. "All this lounging around has put a few pounds on you. Holy shit, it's after four," He said looking at the clock. "Come to bed with me. I've missed being close to you over these past few weeks." 

They walked down the hall of the apartment into the bedroom, Buck blissfully unaware of the mostly empty whisky bottle he had left on his bedside table. Steve eyed it, but said nothing. As Steve laid down on the bed, he almost instantly passed out. Anxiety filled the room as Buck noticed the whisky. Steve stirred slightly as he sprinted over to the table to hide it under the bed. Buck let out a sigh of relief as the room stilled, and he made his way into the bathroom down the hallway.

Buck pulled down his pants and removed the gauze from his thighs. The razor sat on the counter calling out to him, begging to be dragged along his skin. He whacked himself across the head, trying to get the voice to quiet down. He looked up at himself in the mirror for the first time in forever. He grimaced at the sight of himself in the clean glass. His eyes were ghostly, empty almost. His hair was greasy and matted down. He had put on weight, and his scruff had become messy and unkempt. He let out a chuckle, wondering how Steve could manage to love a mess like him.

After reapplying a fresh layer of gauze to his thighs, he put on his pair of pajama pants before making his way back into the bedroom. He laid on the bed looking up at the ceiling, alone with the voice in his head. Steves gentle breathing relaxed him just enough to shift his focus from the nightmares to the future.

He thought about what the future would hold for the two of them. There was no way they'd be able to live normally, at least not while the world knew about the horrors he had committed. Steve had always mentioned the two of them going to gym together, maybe grab dinner in an actual restaurant on the weekends. Even just standing on the patio of their apartment led to stares from people on the street, and the neighborhood seemed to empty out when they knew Steve was out of town. 

It could be dangerous when Steve wasn't around. It hadn't happened in awhile, but when Buck had a psychotic break there was no telling what could happen. Steve had been the only person who knew how to calm him down and prevent him from hurting anyone. For weeks after, Buck tied himself to the bed every time he was alone, fearful of attacking an innocent civilian. When Steve found him after one mission, practically starved to death and too weak to move. It took him months to fully recover, never quite regaining the muscle that wasted away.

Before he knew it, the sun was rising. With a quiet shuffle, he made his way out into the living room and turned on the TV. The news was talking about whatever political scandal was happening that week, but Buck didn't pay much attention to it. He made a pot of coffee and settled down onto the couch waiting for Steve to wake up. 

A few hours later, Steve stumbled out of the bedroom and plopped down next to him on the couch. 

"How long have you been up?" Steve asked in a sleepy voice. He rested his head on Bucks chest, cuddling into him Buck smiled a little, enjoying the feeling of a comforting touch. Steve listened to Bucks heartbeat slow, and felt relief flush through him. "Are you feeling okay? You seem a little anxious."

Buck tensed, realizing he had been dangerously close to a panic attack before Steve came into the room. Steve had always helped the voice quiet down, and return Buck to a normal state of mind. All he could do was let out a sigh and nod his head, at least enough to reassure Steve. He rested his shoulder over Steve and they snuggled together and watched the morning television.


	2. Midnight

"They're really making you leave again? So soon?" Buck asked Steve as he suited up. Steve nodded sadly as he fastened his tactical belt. "It shouldn't take long. Just some recon overseas, I should be back in a few weeks."

Buck sighed and rested back against the headboard. Times had been rough in the recent weeks. Buck had been trying to cut back on the alcohol since Steve had been home, but the withdrawals were hell. The ache where his arm met his torso seemed to get worse with each passing day. No matter what he did, nothing seemed to help him forget about the pain. Nothing except for Steve. When they were together, the nightmares seemed to fade away. 

The quiet of the apartment settled in as soon as Steve walked out the door. He almost felt the apartment building take an anxious breath as they saw Steve leave. His breathing quickened, and his heart began to race. He stumbled into the bathroom as he tried to pull down his pants to expose his thighs. His shaky hands picked up the razor as he ripped the gauze off, exposing the scarred skin underneath. 

He let out a grimace as he dragged the blade across his skin. He felt a wave of relief pass through him as he watched the crimson blood pool up on the cut, relishing in the pain. Coming back to his senses, he rummaged through the cabinet and picked up the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, cleaning the wound. After putting on new gauze, he stumbled his way back out into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. Turning on the most mind-numbing thing he could find, he watched for hours, trying to forget about the ache in his chest.

Steve wrote to him whenever he could, but being a secret government operative made that difficult. The two of them often went days without hearing anything, often leaving Buck to lay awake at night, wondering if Steve would be coming home to his arms again. 

Pain was forever constant throughout his body. If it wasn't a fresh cut, it was the scar tissue in his chest. The jagged metal cutting into nerves every time he moved. He pulled a hidden bottle of whisky out from the cabinet, drowning most of the bottle in a few drinks. He missed the feeling of getting drunk, the feeling of his problems slipping away as he enjoyed the company of whoever he was getting drunk with. 

The next thing he knew, it was four AM. He sighed loudly before turning off the TV and made his way to the bedroom. He grimaced as he changed his pants and took off his shirt. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bedroom mirror, and found himself fighting the urge to rip away the metal from his flesh. He forced himself to put on a hoodie Steve had left on the foot of the bed. He let out a shaky sigh as he rubbed at the lumpy tissue. 

He turned off the light and collapsed onto the bed. Sirens echoed through the open window, brining noise into the otherwise silent room. After another hour, he gave up. He grimaced as he stood up, shuffling back toward the couch. Throwing back another shot of whisky, he studied the nine-millimeter pistol he had pulled out of his bedside drawer. He hadn't touched a weapon in years, but the voice in his head had been tempting him to end it all.

Steve had searched the apartment thoroughly after his last break, but Buck had hidden the gun well before hand. As far as he knew, Steve had no clue there was a weapon in the house. 

_You deserve to shove that in your mouth, and blow your fucking brains out. Nobody would miss you. You deserve to die._

Buck practically threw the pistol on the ground when he realized he was moving it towards his head. He started spiraling, trying to stop himself from screaming. He stumbled around, before collapsing in a heap onto the floor. He quickly stumbled towards the bedroom looking for the rope in the closet. He quickly tied the rope to the bedpost and around his wrist, trying to stop himself from ripping the hair from his scalp. He grabbed his pillow from the bed, and shoved it into his mouth when he could no longer stop himself from screaming

He woke up a day later, sprawled out on the ground and still tied to the bed. He sat there confused, looking around for an explanation. When he saw the rope, he felt anxiety creep through him. Quickly untying the knot, he stumbled through the apartment trying to regain his composure. He turned on the hot shower, and sat down feeling the hot water rush down his back. He looked at the white scars on his thighs, feeling the overwhelming urge to hurt himself. He quickly got himself out of the shower and dressed before going back to watching his mind-numbing television.


End file.
